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4 



A VISION OF FAME. 

Long nights of watchfulness and anxious care 

Beside a sleeper whose unconscious form, 

Held only by the slender thread of hope, 

Swung tremulous above the drear abyss 

Between eternity and time, as hangs 

The solitary aspen J^eaf before 

Its fated fall, had made my thoughts to flit 

With vague uncertainty, and when the time, 

So dreaded, came, at last, to end the watch, 

The anguish of embittered sighs and tears 

Then kept me still awake and woke me when 

I slept. Some respite from myself I sought 

By wandering forth into a neighboring wood, 

Where oft the lost, loved one and I had gone 

To while, with converse sweet, the summer days. 

Beneath a massive oak that sentry stood 

Amidst a grove of maple and of ash 

Whose ripening foliage was in the flush 

Of eventide, and whispering secret tales. 

Swayed lightly by the wooing, autumn breeze, 

A long neglected hammock hung suspent. 

Reluctantly, and yet with eagerness, 

It seemed, I took our old, accustomed place ; 

Reclining, gently swinging to and fro, 

I gazed up in the sky where gauzy clouds 

Involved my weary mind and soothed to sleep. 

A glorious vision mingled with my dreams, 

That were not merely dreams, methinks, because 

I felt, withal, a half-delightful pang. 

As conscious of forgetfulness of things 

Still known in that one knows they are forgott'n, 

Like twilight lingering at the lapse of day. 

I saw a sea of mellow light enclosed 

By rainbow shores, and, as each billow rolled. 

The colors changed to tints unknown to earth, 



A VISION OF FAME. 

But such as Fancy, Avith a frenzied hand, 

Might use to paint an angel's dream of love. 

Upon the strand of disembodied hues 

The wanton waves did winnow witless words 

Whose empty forms, (bereft of airy thoughts 

Which, gathpned i/it-OfSubjtijley m.easur-ed strains,. 

Were wafted as sweet incense through the realm), 

Like fleets Of spfectralv i:ieatlyargQ shells. 

To be again reladen;-camie athwart 

The sea of mellow l^ght with rainbow shores, 

I saw still other fairer visions yet : 

A floating garden made of fleecy clouds, 

And each one blossomed into rosy bowers 

While drifting On its undtildting way ;■ 

There waved a' century-plant' m early bloom. 

And here a fleur-de-lis, while 'yonder bowed 

A sweet night-blooiiiing-cereus full blown. 

Upon whose? visible 'aroma huiig 

In ecstacy, aerial;' gcAdiefn bees' • ■ 

Which fluttefed into birds^of -paradise 

That ever and anon dissolved away. 

And some betook the forms of haq^s and lyres 

Upon whose chords a puVple' zephyr played 

Such melodies they danced With boundless joy 

And shook from off their 'misty, slender stems 

The oder-breathing petals,' soft and rare, 

Which, circ'Ting'rotirid, all melted as tihey' fell 

In shov^ers of ra'diint sotitt'd-'i Svhose echoes filled 

The sea of mellow light'^'^h'i-ainbOw shores. 

I saw another vision fairer 'Still :• ' "^ 

From out the skies -a Seraph plucked away 

The waning, ci'escent moon to be her boat. 

And fixed on 'either point a glowing star 

Whose trembling' lig'ht w!as- woven ifltoweird. 

Effulgent' '^treahierk'bearihg this device : — 

Sic itur Ad Astra- l-^in quaint relief ; 

A halo of enraptured gloi'y sho'ne ■ ■■■"• 

About th'e^eraph, who, in lavish mit^n, 

Was clad in filmy folds of lucid beams ' 

Which clung about her litliesome loveliness 

As clings the calyx to' the bloomirig roSe;' 



A VISION OF FAME. 

On either hand a smiling cherub stood, ' 

And plied a supple oar with Seldom stroke, 

To guide the crescent boat which glided througli 

The sea of mellow light with rainbow shores. 

And still a fairer vision yet I saw : 

All earth, and that which it contained, drew near 

And turned into an amaranthine wreath 

Which, at the Seraph's wish, embraced my brow 

The trammels of humanity, were gone ; 

We had no need of words because we knew ; 

Her inmost, secret thoughts 1 Could divine 

And knew that I could. nQthing. secret, keep 

From her- who, pleased, .beheld my altered slate ; 

I stood beside her in the crescejit boat ; 

There were none else to love, so \ye were wed^ 

And what before was beautiful. was come 

To be but Beauty's sublimated self >. 

The cherubim now languished into light ; 

We knew the fountain-head of love and life, 

Then voyaged to a limp, ethereal isle 

Where dwelt of all essential things the cause ; 

I went ashore and sought to know this else. 

But went alone ; my Seraph cruised about 

The sea of mellow light with rainbow shores. 

And yet again a fairer vision still : 

The Infinite stood forth to me revealed ; 

I knew eternity as erst I knew 

A day ; the dim beginning and the end, 

The worth of life, the price of death, and why ; 

The vanished and. the yet to be ; the bad 

Forgiven and the good rewarded, all 

Of which I knew and some of all I was; 

The limpid isle stood in the middle tide ; 

I stood within the center of the isle 

And looked upon, aye, even far beyond, 

The sea of mellow light with rainbow shores ! 

And then I saw another vision still, . 

But it was awful to behold, not fair ; 

And this is all because there were no more ; . 

Our crescent boat was waning to a thread ; ' 

The Star on either pblht became a blur'; 



A VISION OF FAME. 

The sea of mellow light was growing faint and dusk 

The rainbow shores were fading into mist ; 

My Seraph seemed a shadow of herself ; 

When, all at once, unmitigated night, 

The hush of death, the wail of endless woe. 

The pangs of grief, the scoffings of remorse, 

The blight of blastfed hope and wan despair 

Usurped the place of what was there before, 

While I became my wonted self again, 

And cast my anguish into hollow words 

Which seemed like very mockery to me then : 

Drifting apart in the tide and stream, 
As branches torn from the tree of life ! 

O God, I would that ifwere but a dream 
That takes from me my Seraph wife. 

Who is fading away, drifting apart, 

DarkeniHg my day and breaking my heart ! 

Fading away as the moonlight dim, 

Before the dawn of a wintry day ! 
Drifting apart is she from him 

Who still shall care for her if he may, 
Who is fading away, drifting apart. 

Darkening my day and breaking my heart ! 

Darkening my day like a night at noon, 
Fallen from a cloud that drifts unseen ! 

No sun, not a star to light, nor moon ! 
E'en the light of love that did intervene 

Seems fading away, drifting apart, 

Darkening my day and breaking my heart ! 

Fading away, but not my love ; 

It grows as the river's gathering flood. 
For one as the light from heaven above. 

So pure that she needs no atoning blood, 
Though fading away, drifting apart, 

Darkening my day and breaking my heart ! 

O, bid me come or, love, I die ! 

My life without thy love is death ! 
But breathe on the clouds that are swimming by, 



A VISION OF FAME. 

And I shall feel thy life-giving breath 
That fades not away and drifts not apart, 
Brightening my day and healing my heart ! 

Fading away, but not my love ! 

Drifting apart, for the present alone ! 
Darkening my day, but not for aye, 

Breaking my heart, yet she will atone. 
Though fading away, drifting apart. 

Darkening my day and breaking my heart. 

When I awoke from out that wakeful sleep 

The sun was gone behind the western hills, 

And I bethought 'twould not be wholly vain 

To shackle what was left of all I dreamed 

If I could find such words as would not let 

The finer, better fragments filter out 

Into the void and desert night, and hold 

The rougher rubble of the fallen fane. 

If that were veriest fiction and a myth 

It hath its real counterpart in truth ; 

In each long, dreary age there may be one, 

As Byron, who awakes to find himself 

Made famous by the grandeur of his song, 

But, ah, the many who lie down to dream 

Of fame more oft to disappointment wake ! 

Full many who were sanguine at the morn 

Behold their noon eclipsed by dark despair. 

Because, O, 'World, of thy too tardy praise ! 

It may be well ; the stronger will survive ; 

And yet it may not be ; some gentle White, 

A Corneille, Poe, a Pollock or a Keats, 

May wait and rue until the sun is set, 

Before their stars of glory are beheld ; 

Yet maybe this is best, — to keep them prone 

Upon Procrustean racks that they may pt)ur 

Their bitter lamentations in sweet songs 

To charm the savage ears of brutal men. 

As did the dying gladiator's groans 

The fiendish rabble of besotted Rome, 

And, charming them, perchance in time to tame. 

Pespair not, ye. who merit hath to Rtrivc? 



JVOl^V AND THEN. 

For while there is a future there is hope ; 

O, hope, thou tempest- tossed, unerring doye ! 

Come, thou, to them from thy celest abode ! 

Find where upon their brows to rest thy foot ! 

Build thee a nest in some frequented grove, 

Where matin and soft vesper echoes blend, 

That they may' hear thy sweet though plaintive nott 



NOW AND THEN. 

Pray ye harken, sweet minstrels, the heralds of June, 
While the fairies of childhood are chanting a tune ! 
Cease to murmur, ye winds, in the treetops above, 
Let me hear once again., the first whispers of love ! 

It was here, where I stand, after many long years. 
On the banks of this brook, where the tirst grass appears, 
That we loitered our time M^hich so swiftly went by, 
She, my love, little Laura Llwellyn, and I. 

O, we lived then to love, and we loved then to live, 
For we never asked aught but that hope would . us give ; 
If we longed for a world in the regions of air. 
There was ready a cloud-boat to waft us both there. 

We would sit here for hours and make baskets of burrs, 
But forever, somehow, mine would cling fast to her's ; 
She would weave tiny carpets of grass web and woof. 
Which I slyly would ravel, just to hear her reproof. 

Unforbidden by her, and unbidden by both, 

A sweet kiss pledged a love, to which neither was loath ; 

Aye, then we were wise in affairs of the heart. 

For it seemed second nature to us, and not art ! 

In the light of her eyes -beamed the thoughts of her soul. 
Like the odors exhaled ere the petals unroll ; 
And the smile on her lip would then picture the word, 
Which I heard ere she spoke, like the song of a bird. 

Swims this brook to the river and that to the tide, 
Where the blue, rolling billows in melody glide ; 



CUBA. 

First in fancy we drifted adown the limp stream, 
Then /drifted alon'e, biit'ahr, not in a- dream ! 

I conceived me •unble$t,, in fthe longings of youth, 
And thus did I wand?r away from the truth, 
Till I sailed down th;e;.fload where the ocean-tide swells 
To go searching: for pearls there among the bright shells. 

From the shore I took ship to the isles in the bay, 
Still went seeking for pearls and went seeking alway ; 
I have wearied of toil'and am come home to rest 
For I feel that my life-star is- now in the west ! 

But O, where are my friends ? and the answer is, " where ? 

E'en the ivy-clad arbor is broken and bare ! 

Little Laura Llewellyn is now — Laura Lee 

And the dreams of our childhood come only to me ! 



CUBA. 

A PROPHECY. 

Stood Morro Gastle. out against the sea, 
Full- garrisoned by soldiers from old Spain, 

To menace those who ;h6ped they may be free, 

To stay a petty despot's tottering. reign ; 

And hither by the Viceroy's stern, command, 

Was come the leader of a Cuban band ; 

Ten thousand patriots thronged the neighboring shore, 
And feared their star hafl set to rise no more ; 

Havana, Queen of Antilles's fairest child, 

From rosy bowers looked up and sweetly smiled ; 
A massive church that lifts its gilded cross 

High o'er the crowded, hurrying streets below. 
Entombs Iberia's gain, Italia's loss, — 

The great, world-finding Genoese, whom owe 
Mankind a never-fading wreath of fame. 
Though he still owes a hemisphere his name ! 

Grave were the, gay become, and gay the grave, 

With fear the iair, with cheerful; (hope the brave ; 

The martial strains, the rattling of the drum, 

Told all the time tostrike.at, last had come ; 



CUBA. 

Within a secret chamber of the fort, 

The viceroy now was holding private court ; 
"Stand not too near me !" safd the haughty don ; 

His dark and shaggy brow flashed threatening fire ; 
"There comes a day to each who must atone, 
And this is thine ! 'Twere well to check thine ire, 
Arch-traitor to the king ! Upon thy knees ! 
I'll trample thee to earth !" His mantling rage. 

That seemed beyond the power of heav'n to suage. 
With this, grew on apace, while still at ease 
The Cuban stood unmoved, with graven mien, 
Such as in marble statue oft is seen. 
A moment glared his black and piercing eye ; 
First calm, then fiercer grew his bold reply : 

Hast filed the utmost count of thy complaining speech ? 
Then with permission, or without, if need ! 
I fain would bring defence of each. 
For otherwise 'tis not decreed 
A cause to try ! 

Thou, alien, callest me traitor, whom four hundred years 
Have bound to this fair isle, my native land. 
Through honored graves and hopes and fears. 
Because I lift my hand, 
And thee defy ? 

Urge not the rights of Spain that sent great Colon forth : 
Long since her rights were forfeited by thee. 
And such ere thou the scepter boreth ! 
We strike for liberty. 
And God on high ! 
To whom thou spakest words of friendship and of peace. 
First fell the thralldom which foretold of death. 
That came a welcome, glad release 
To those whose latest breath 
Was mercy's cry ! 

Not mercy for themselves ! they would not deign to ask ! 
r>ut for tlie motheis and the bal)es at home ! 
And it became thy dearest task 
To threaten them with Rome ! 
Durst thou deny ? 



ELLEN BORU. ^ 

The curse of Cuba is submission to the sword, 
By despots swayed and reeking with our gore ! 
Come war, and be not peace restored 
Till strewn on every shore 
Her foemen lie! 

Vile, trembling coward, accursed ! most sinister when meek ! 
In whom base passions rouse a hellish fire, 
Whose ashes blanch thy withered cheek ! 
Son of a dishonored sire, 
Thy time is nigh ! 

Thou art the last of our oppressors ! draw thy blade ! 
And by the graves of those who gave me birth, 
I swear to free thy guilty shade. 
And sweep thee from the earth 
Without a sigh ! 

Thy shrove- tide is but brief ! Implore the grace of God ! 
A comely cross will make thy jeweled hilt ! 
We'll plant upon thy hated sod 
A thorn that cannot wilt, 
To know thee by ! 

Despoiler of our homes, our children and our wives ! 
Down, tyrant ! Freedom triumphs in thy fall ! 
I would thou hadst a thousand lives, 
That I might take them all ! 
Usurper, die ! 

He ceased, then rushed upon the startled duke 
Whose stricken tongue could speak no fit rebuke; 

Two gleaming sabers cleave the willing air ! 

A look ! a thrust ! a fall ! a muttered prayer ! 
A blade red-dripping with a tyrant's blood ! 

The wall ! "Hurrah !" a plunge into the sea ! 
Ten thousand meet the hero in the flood ! 

Ten thousand shout : *'0, God ! is Cuba free ?" 



ELLEN BORU. 

When I dream back the time of my boy-hood again, 
And with loved ones go strolling in some crannied glen, 



. ELLEN BORU. 

By the springs of cool water to pluck the sweet fern, 
I despair when I think : "They can never return !" 

Then I thought all were children who thought as I thought, 
And, as I, loved whatever the happy hour brought ; 
But thou, cruel Time, thou hast taken from me 
My innocent ignorance, th.e source of my glee ! 

Now I find that our love means far more than it meant 
In those brown autumn-days when a-nutting we went ! 
Now I know, as not then, there is many a rose 
For this one, or that one ,but none other, blows ! 

O, I never have seen since those fleet, airy hours. 
Such glorious sunsets, such soft- tinted flowers ! 
And the dear ones that gathered to play on the lawn, 
By the finger of Fancy like angels are drawn ! 

And the brightest, the fairest, most gentle and true. 
Was the sunny-haired fairy, sweet Ellen Boru ; 
When her dewy love-dreams like the roses would ope. 
In the tears of her joy was an iris of hope. 

Fond Memory, hallow the first time we met ! 
All the world wiles and foibles beside it forget ! 
"Ittle Ellen, "I said, "I will tiss oo, I will !" 
"No Omer, oo wo'nt, tause I'll never stan' still !" 

But she did, and a thousand times o'er, it meseems, 

I have felt that same kiss through my soul pass in dreams ! 

If the kingdom of heaven be not like to this, 

That eden to me, then, were no place of bliss ! 

I remember one morning we met at our tryst. 
While the birds and the matin bells yet were all whist, 
And the faint, taper streamers of soft, trembling light, 
Were beginning to bid a farewell to the night. 

Every tall spire of grass bent its dew-covered head, 

As if nodding approval of all that we said : 

"May I, sweetheart, love you always ?" I asked, not to tease 

"Eh heh, if you wo- wo- wont love Heloise !" 

Ah, how little we thought that the willows would wave, 
Spectral shadows to-night o'er her cold, sodden grave ! 
Gracious Heaven, console me, and, Fancy, adieu ! 
I must pause, now, to weep, my dear Ellen, for you ! 



SONG OF THE FLIRT. 

SONa OF THE FLIRT. 

You say I should love you, and kiss and caress, 
But surely you know that to love by command 

Is as vain and as id'e as to curse what you bless, 
Or to sow seeds of Sharon in cold, barren land ! 

May the tide tell the moon when to rise or to set ? 

When to measure the last, fleeting tick-tack of time ? 
Should memory tell us the things to forget ? 

And the oak tell the ivy when to bud or to climb ? 

On a dark, sunny day, in a sweet, bitter hour, 

I thought that I loved you, and believe that I did, 

But say, does the bee always cling to the withering flower 
Because of the honey its petals once hid ? 

To love for a moment was heavenly bliss. 
To remember that love is a rapturous thing ! 

But to love that same love, or to kiss that same kiss, 
Is like strangling a bird to enforce it to sing ! 

As a token of love, so, you send a white rose ! 

Ah, yes, I recall, now, I told you one day 
That I loved its soft leaflets so like the pure snows. 

But then should I not love some others more gay ? 

Yes, I love the white roses because they soon fade. 

And must, then, for fresh ones, be thrown to one side ! 

But I should not have loved them if they were so made 
That the blight of decay they could always abide ! 

Pray, do not feel grieved at the mischief I've done. 
Nor ruffle your brow with the rinkles of care ; 

There are others will love you in pique, or in fun, 
But I warn you of flirts hence forever beware ! 



IN BROKFN METER. 

A REVERIE. 
I. 

I was standing by the ocean-side when the tide was in one time, 
Watching the rippling waves and eddies as the came and went in rhyme, 
Leaving mellow rills of music that diffused a holy balm, 
T^ike the echoes in a grotto wh?n a hermjt chants a psalm ; 



12 IN BROKEN METER. 

Quite thoughtlessly I wondered if those waves would come once more, 

To break in requiems or anthems upon that lonely shore ; 

Yet T watched and waited vainly, for they claimed no more their place. 

Though others came whose difference no mariner could trace ; 

In the ever-changing billows still their elements are blent. 

But these that come and go are not the ones that came and went ; 

And have their orisons, In Broken Meter, gone forever ? 

Shall they not come again ? And the foaming breakers answered : 

*'Never!" 
Their hallowed tones have flown, like shadows of departed bliss, 
Through time's rough riffles down into eternity's abyss. 

2. 
With measured swell the mighty gulf unceasingly did throb ; 
Sometimes it feigned to laugh with festive mirth, sometimes to sob ; 
Was each strong pulse, and every sigh that seemed so sadly drawn, 
Assorted and ordained when order first began to dawn ? 
Or were they told when Chaos ruled the void, Cimmerian realm ? 
Immensity of Time and Space, what mysteries ye whelm ; 
Effect, all helpless, treads the tracks of Cause, and Cause itself 
Hath not more freedom than the transport toiling in a delf ; 
We are just what we are because we do as do we must ; 
Inevitably our tears are shed till life is dried to dust; 
We do but what we do because we are just what we are. 
Nor else can do or be, save what our teachings make or mar ; 
E'en these affect us as we are, according to our task. 
In Broken Meter given, and not as we might blindly ask. 

3- 
It seemed some undertone, some unexpressed and captive note, 
Were strangling in the depths, tied down to words that would not float. 
I thought, — what did I think, or feel, and could not give it form ? 
Ah, that our rude tongue could fit our better thoughts whose warm, 
Bright petals perish in its gelid maze ! O, for some art 
Of silent speech that of our thoughts could be a living part ! 
What sun and moon are to the elsewise calm and passive ocean, 
Are pain and pleasure to the mind, — the source of life and motion ; 
That prompts us to avoid, this other urges that we grasp, 
And pleasure often gives us pain by the ardor of its clasp. 
Despite the wise, this question e'er, In Broken Meter, steals : 
Is mind and enthroned autocrat that knows and thinks and feels, 
And yet can be, and reign, without and all apart from these ? 
Or do they constitute the mind, as the blowing does the breeze ? 



IN BROKEN METER. ij 

4- 
Thou, too, blue Multitude, art cue of many, of many, one ! 
The complex of to-day was the simple of the ages gone ; 
We know less of the more, but know more of the less, perchance, 
Know more of man and less of gods, than those whose slow advance, 
Made laggard by the weight of creeds, compels the curious now 
To stand amazed. The possible is probable, but how ? 
Not "why ?" nor "when ?" nor "where ?" We wish the knowledge 

of the mode 
That the tired and heavy-laden may throw aside their weary load. 
If one's credulity be more or less than mine should I, 
In honest sooth, be praised or blamed ? If so, not "how ?" but why? 
Vain man's ideal deity is but himself released 
From finite limitations, with earth's next wisest for a priest. 
Whose care it is to mete to each worn pensioner his vails. 
And chant. In Broken Meter, a panacea for his ails. 

5- 
I marked that in the deeper waters, the waves rolled high and long, 
While near the shore they foamed and fretted most, but were not strong; 
Far out uprose a swelling sea, responsive to the powers 
That measure tides and seasons, and tell off rosaries of hours ; 
A gentle breeze will rudely ruffle a lakelet's placid sheen. 
When all unheeded rounds the moon in majesty, serene ; 
Such breeze may kiss the slumbering deep, nor wake a passing smile, 
Though fair Diana's gentler influence be not unfelt the while ; 
Yea, the shallows are most easily, thou not so long, disturbed ; 
Like the simple, quickly roused to fury and as furiously curbed ; 
The labor- throes of empires, when giving free-born nations birth, 
Which peal, In Broken Meter, to the ends of all the earth. 
Nor the wail of dying creeds that most begrudgingly give way. 
Divert those little minds so much as do the chances of a play. 

6. 
At times each burdened wave seemed fraught with dread and bated 

breath. 
That ominously doled : "The greatest secret of life is: — death !" 
What need of bale ? A peaceful end the rueful means forgives ; 
Strive, and rest atones ; sleep, and the sleeper, dreaming, lives ; 
Hark, and eolian choirs entrance ; look, and the flowers enchant ; 
Love, and a halo of musical glory encircles the lover's haunt ; 
Are these not enough? When po.ssessing the earth, why yearn for 

the clouds ? 



14 iN BKOAEN MEIER. 

Is eternity wages of time ? Durst I ask what mystery enshrouds ? 
The Mocking bird carols for his own delight, and blithely he sings 
His roundelay where the Ocklawaha winds from the Silver Springs ; 
But man attunes a different air, and fearing, trusts his God 
May hear his songs In Broken Meter, and spare the chasteninfT rod ; 
Harrowed and harassed by painful misgivings ; encour ged by 

thoughts that console, 
Impatient we moil till the last grim date is gone from the checkered 

scroll. 

7. 
It seemed to me, while standing there, our thoughts but come and go, 
As do the troubled waters in their ceaseless ebb and flow ; 
Are they not waves of consciousness upon the sea of life, 
That whirl in dizzy eddies and a never ending strife ? 
New thoughts arise from out the wreck of those forever dead. 
While brooding Memory, like a miser, counts the moments fled ; 
The silly tyro, in the idle plenitude of words, 
May skim along above the waves, as do the ocean-birds, 
And rudely thrum the mental chords, in the vanity of youth. 
To find In Broken Meter flows the mind's elusive truth ; 
Whence comes the psychal symphony and whither does it tend ? 
Does it commence at the beginning and finish at Jhe end ? 
The reaper fells the harvest, but promises no aftermath, 
Nor leaves enough for gleaners who may seek to trace his path. 

8. 

And then methought the pleasing pain which quickens every nerve, 
But lengthens out our serving time that we may longer serve, 
Until the slow, yet hastening, sun melts down into the west, 
When each one's fond mirage fades like the islands of the blest ; 
A belief, a fancy and a hope ; a doubt, reality and despair ; 
These are constituents of life, yet, ingredients of death are there. 
In the cycle of our days, the Golden Number falls in June, 
Ere fancy, joy and hope are turned to grief that comes so soon; 
The drops which make that heaving flood may once a rainbow shone, 
Where Pike's eternal Peak, hoar-crested, somber and alone, 
Leans toward the sun and pours his molten crown in streams that 

leap, 
And bound, In Broken Meter, until thep reach again the deep ; 
In the discord there are harmonies which linger like sweet dreauu, 
)Vhen music wakes the sleeper by 4iscoursing love-lorn theme-. 



IN BROKEN METER, /^ 

9- 
The past hath robbed the future of full many centuries and still 
Time has neither gained nor lost, nor do the rivers fill 
The hollows of the sea,— changeless, yet never twice the same ; 
Not so unhke the troubled air where fleets of cloud inflame 
The middle night with fierce and angry menace, then pass, ere morn, 
Into a sweet, Cathedral still, and vapors to adorn 
The glowing east. Oft lured by vain ambition or the lust of wealth, 
Hath man made thee, thou azure Mirror, a medium of stealth ; 
And oftentimes didst thou his treasures and himself entomb, — 
Too worthy sepulcher of such as merited their doom ! 
The storied songs the fabled Naiads sang when Greece was young, 
Still doth thou sing, In Broken Meter, with a softer tongue ; 
Thou friend and thou foe of nations, this moral thy etchings record : 
If Wrong have no bounty to ofter, then is Right not deserving reward. 

lo. 
The tide had come, and had gone ; I lingered still upon the strand ; 
It was the glorious blooming-time, and a breeze blew toward the land ; 



How like a throbbing life doth seem the tireless, pulsing main 

So brave when the orbs of glory rise, so humble when they wane ! 

So bright and sparkling in the sunshine, so sullen in the shade ! 

And yet there is no picture all of brilliant colors made. 

Is life a transient day between two nights of ebon hue, 

Which reach before and after, unknown to heaven's ethereal blue ? 

Or, is death a night between two days, one troublous, dark and brief, 

The other joyous, fair, eternal ; where Jove is law and law is lief? 

Hast thou no answer. Ocean, in all thy amplitude of sounds, 

No emblem of this life, this death, their causes, metes and bounds ? 

E'en though it be In Broken Meter, refuse me not O, Tide ! 

For I commune with thee in earnest though thou doth seem to chide. 

II. 
Came silvery evening as I tarried near the ocean's brink, 
And from uncertain, flitting thoughts a system tried to think; 
I thought I knew I felt there was some universal plan. 
That fain would teach eternity by time and God by man; 
But nature's archives yield the least of what we search for most, 
And often do we find a fog where we expected coast; 
We may, at times, aspire to circumscribe omnific rules, 
Or deem all free to chance, — the phantom argument of fools! 
If liberty were license, freedom still would be in gyves, 
Bound by inexorable decrees while the universe survives: 



j() IN BR OK EN ME TER. 

Tempt not thyself, O, man! to vex the co-eternal laws; 
Nor seek immutable effects without as changeless cause; 
Like the rhythm of the surf, that, In Broken Meter, swells. 
The rarest of our fancies of some fairy bondage tells. 

12. 

I turned to go; the murmuring sounds grew faint and sadly weird, 
I felt a strange and sudden tremor, as if my heart were seared; 
"O, thou vast Grave!".! said, "Thou drear and melancholy vSea! 
I would that some great sorrow should make me sad like thee! 
I then might know the solemn meaning of thy mournful dirge; 
Wherefore, at times, in foreign accent speaks each plaintive surge, 
So soft and -unfamiliar that its message is but vague. 
Leaving half impressions which make of reverie a plague! 
Flowing and rolling! Tossing and surging! Lashing and raging! 
Onward and upward! Backward and downward! Swelling, assuaging! 
Forever and ever. In Broken Meter, thy monody is told!" 
And I now but repeat the measure like it comes to me as of old. 
Were my reed- not rent from its native reef by a ruthless blast. 
Shattered and broken, perhaps this strain should be of a smoother cast. 

13- 

Slowly away from the lonely beach, reluctant, thoughtful, I wan- 
dered, 
And I wondered if our lives are, like the bubbling sea-foam, pon- 
dered 
In scales that keep no record of their mystical, mythical weight. 
The value of a life is but its worth to others, whom love or hate 
Hath rendered unfair judges of the trembling culprit's defense 
For the crime of being; praise tallies blame; blame, praise, and we 

go hence 
Not much unlike we came, — to this one, all, to that one, naught; 
Nor these, perchance, were those, for these may now be those who 

thought 
Not as they think; indifference may grow to love, and love to spurn; 
That is the sweet of life, and this its gall; mixed in the urn. 
Then make, at best, a bitter draught, and who refuse to quaff, 
Have heard, with glee, In Broken Meter, the score of Charon's 

staff. 
It may be well thus to cease from seeking blossoms on the moss, 
For if through life there comes no gain, then through death there 
can be no loss. 



IN BROKEN METER. 17 

14. 

I wound my devious way where wind and wave had often swept, 

Until I reached a frowning cliff where owls their vigils kept, 

Then paused to gaze upon the lichen-covered ledge of rock. 

Where once some pious prelate dwelt to meditate and mock. 

Confusion, tell, is this the end, — a recollected hope? 

The callow novice, with his marsh-lamp, stalks where sages grope. 

The more we know, the less do we believe; — more to forget! 

The moi-e we do believe, the less we know; — less to regret! 

We know not what we do believe, and may not if we would; 

And we believe not what we know, nor need to if we could. 

Our knowledge is the fruit from the blossom of belief whose bud 

Was a doubt which grew remote on the banks of some lethean flood; 

The minor make the major, as the sands compose the beach; 

And bits of truth. In Broken Meter, are all that we can teach. 

15- 
As up I climbed the crag its niches seemed again to yield 
The deep-toned diapason that the ocean-organ pealed; 
How mean the mightiest product of thy skill, (), man, and weak. 
Beside the works of nature, seeming more a transient freak! 
Thy seven wonders of as many days, like snows that melt. 
Have gone, nor left a trace, and weeds grow rank where Magi knelt. 
The cant of rituals, the grating, sacrificial screed, 
Are not to wonder-mongers now, as once, so great a need. 
Of all man's cunning handiwork, two arts alone unchange, — 
The arts of Homer and of Euclid; true, though seeming strange ! 
The shadow and the substance! the odor and the rose! 'tis meet 
That they should be joint- heirs of time, each century to greet, 
The one with olden songs, In Broken Meter, sung as erst. 
The other with its angles and its trines, still true, as first. 

16. 
I stood upon the summit where did sea-fowls round me couch, 
Waiting like a lover for an answer the loved one will not vouch; 
The sun was gone and bright-eyed Vesper looked through cloud - 

veils down 
Upon the darkening waters which met her glances with a frown; 
Yet I could see the mingling glances as they quivered in the dark. 
Dancing like a buoy that so bravely guides the barque; 
They seemed Hke truth that struggles with a deep,dark,cheerless mind 



1 8 IN BROKEN METER. 

Which shuts the eye of faith and says that all the world is blind. 

O, Truth! thrice blessed when believed, but when denied, — a curse 

That withers with its blight, and makes the weary life perverse! 

Pour forth thy soothing fullness like the gentle dews of eve, 

To cool the burning brow of anxious thought whose very thoughts 

deceive! 
We hear, In Broken Meter, the clangor of some unknown choir, 
But only hear the cymbals, and not the dulcimer and lyre. 



Adown the farther slope I braced my solitary course, 

To where a dark and tortuous stream came winding from its source; 

Then sat me there to muse beside a mallow-bordered silt, 

Where shrieking night-hawks sought the nest some lone titwillow 

built; 
While leaning there upon a sweet-viola covered turf, 
I heard, when I did not, the soughing, sighing, distant surf; 
Now dreary lowered the clouds in one impenetrable drift. 
Which lightly hung at sun-set with many a ruby-tinted rift; 
So lowers grim falsehood when is gone the vivid, ruddy blush 
The eloquence of sophistry bestowed with fervid brush; 
Were virtue vice and vice were virtue, they would ever lure, 
But the few would be the vicious, and the many be the pure. 
He who. In Broken Meter, sings may flourish for a trice. 
But gold awaits him who contrives some dear, degrading vice. 



Again I thought the scenes of life are as those fleeting waves. 

That drift, like crude philosoyjhies, into deep and timely graves, 

And leave their wordy raiment as a token and a pledge, 

Of all vain strifes to graft an immortelle upon the sedge. 

Life may be wrong if lived awrong, but right if lived aright, — 

A dithyrambic strain, or a pleasing melody of light. 

Those who so blessed they love to live that they may live to love, 

Fear nothing from beneath the stars, hope nothing from above; 

But O, when one has gone, the fairest, dearest, best and all, 

Whose every care was but to please, how dreadful is the pall! 

In Broken Meter though it be, how then we love to liear 

The Siren, Hope, so like an angel from a distant sphere. 

In rapt, seraphic strains acclaim, somewhere, somehow, somewhen, 

Our loss shall profit ; that we may live and love and meet again! 



INTAGLIOS. 1 9 

INTAQLIOS. 

The a, B, C's. 
ALAS! 

Thou wouklst,no doubt, a secret know? then hark ! 

'Tis this, a lover's lorn complaint ! 
If sweethearts do their sparking in the dark. 

They'll fall in love when not acquaint, 
Aiid when they are, fall out ! 

BEWARE ! 

Such small things mar the bliss of wedded life ! 

We do not get the ones we thought ! 
Just man, the husband proves, nor angel, wife ! 
Hence some are married who are not, 
And some are not who are ! 
CONSIDER ! 
Be not m haste ! But learn in love to grow ! 

The tardy oak withstands the storm, 
When quicker growths are strewn about below ; 
And gaudy fruits of beauteous form, 
Are oft of bitter taste ! 



To M— R— . 

Most things that are bound in the harvest sheaf, 
Are straw and tares and the gleaner's grief ; 
Yet how gladly we toil in the noontide sun. 
Rejoicing to think that our hands will have done, 
Only the task found so pleasant and brief, — 
Made light by the cheer of a willing heart, 
In the strife to do but its noblest part, — 
Grateful to the Master for His giving lief. 



TIME. 
Said Tempo to Mnemonikos one day : 

"Do you remember when old Time began ?" 
"What foolish things you ask ! go, take my ban !" 
Mnemonikos returned, and would away. 
But Tempo begged that he a while should stay. 



INTAGLIOS. 

Said Tempo : "Ere grass grew or water ran, 
Our father Time was then become a man ; 

My friend, there never was a time, I say, 

When time was not, nor will there ever be !" 

"Hold on, my lad !" Mnemonikos replied, — 

"It strikes me, sir, that you have surely lied !" 
Quoth Tempo, laughing with provoking glee: — 
"Those are the times of which I speak, you see 

And, with a wink, away himself he hied. 



PROFESSOR AND STUDENT. 

"You say, young man, you know that you zx& you ! 

'Tis youth, perhaps, that makes you feel so sure ; 

And doth such knowledge one to self inure ? 
No doubt you think that what you say is true ; 
Or have you found some method, wholly new, 

By which identity is made secure ? 

How do you knozu you know that you endure ? 
Have you some formula that holds your view ?" 

"I think I feel I knov/," the student said ; 
"I feel I know I think,^'' said he again ; 
"I think I hiow I feel, and, therefore, then, 

I know I think I feel," and scratched his head ; 

'•^\feel I think I know I am not dead ; 
I know \feel I think I'm what I've been !" 



DYNAMICS. 

Strong passion first, and reason next, control 
The world of thought and deed, for weal or woe 
By innate force that greets each friend or foe, 
While this essays to win the promised goal 
Through subtle craft, or by a dextrous vole ; 
That leads where fierce desire commands to go; 
This lies supine full oft though it doth know 
Neglected duty smites the erring soul ; 

That is the parent and the child of wrong, 
And yet there is no life without its thrill, 
No fear, no hope, no love, nor good or ill ; 



THREE WISHES. 

To this the cares of patient toil belong, 
Its task to guide, mayhap to cheer, the throng, 
For reason is but sober passion still. 



WILL. 

All conscious acts are quite along the lines 
Which offer least resistance to their course, 
And these are but the way desire inclines. 
Despite the counter-mand of duty's force; 
That ignis fatuus, Will, wry-gotten elf ! 
But leads unwary wights into the slough, 
And leaves each there to flounder by himself. 
Just free enough to weep and wail in rue. 



MISFIT LINES. 
The past was bi]t the seed-time, the harvest is at hand, 
And many things thought evil now smile upon the land ; 
The nave redeems the pulpit, the alter lights the pews, — 
The bloom upon the upas holds honey-bearing dews ; 
That which was right but yester may be as wrong to-day, 
And autumn fruit is hanging where blossoms hung in May ; 
Through early fogs and vapors breaks forth the rosy light. 
And morrow comes resplendent to dissipate the night ; 
Fair hope is to the future as memory to the past. 
One beholds the butterfly, the other sees the cast ; 
Some ask : "Is life worth living ?" to which I make reply 
By asking in return : Is it worth while to die ? 
Is morning worth its glory ? Is Saturn worth its rings ? 
Are flowers worth their beauty ? The eagle worth its wings ? 
There are no joys in pleasure but counteract a pain, 
We cannot measure losses by what was never gain ; 
There is no good in virtue if evil be not wrong. 
And bacchanalian ditties would be most hallowed song, 



THREE WISHES. 

*0, I would be a full-blown rose !" 
A beauteous maiden lightly sang, 

'Beside some babbling brook that flows 
Where mossy festoons drooping hang 1" 



LIFE. 

When winter comes the rose will fade, 
And fall in the babbling brook below ; 

Pray make another wish, sweet maid, 
I would not have thee perish so ! 

"O, I would be a butterfly !" 

The little maiden sang once more, 

"And then I need not ever sigh. 

Nor wish the wish of a day before !" 

The golden sheen of the butterfly's wing. 
Is like to a maiden's untarnished name; 

When once despoiled of its glittering, - 
'Tis never, ah, never again the same ! 

"O, I would be without a care !" 
The lonely maiden sang again, 

"Beyond the sound of 'Stop ! Beware !' 
For 1 could do as I wanted then !" 

"What is a name ?" does the maiden ask? 

A tattling tell-tale but of wrong. 
That still survives life's hurried task. 

While the good is sung in a single song. 



LIFE. 

Until fifty we live in the future, 

Thereafter we live in the past ; 
Like an angler, whose line, first before him. 

Soon over his shoulder is cast ; 
Though the hook may be baited for goldfish. 

Less seldom the catch is a trout ; 
And how oft those who grumble at minnows, 

Could not fetch a bigger one out ! 

It is better to wade in the shallows, 

And scoop little crabs with a pan, 
Than to venture out over deep waters, 

Unless one can fish like a man ; 
But we must not forever be children. 

And dabble about in the shoals ; 
For no sailors have yet crossed the ocean, 

Before they set out froiii their goals. 



A FLORIDA SIESTA. 2j 

There is virtue in battling with breakers, 

And health to both body and brain ; 
Every effort gives strength to continue, 

While idleness brings us no gain ; 
We are never quite still for a moment, 

While either awake or asleep ; 
For we must go on forward or backward, 

Though maybe, at times, we but creep. 

Yes, we live in the future till evening, 

And toil up the stream with our might ; 
Then while resting and waiting for sunset. 

We drift down again before night ; 
When at waking we heard the reveille, 

And rose with high hopes and ado. 
Very little we thought, in the hurry, 

Its echoes should be the tat-too ! 



A FLORIDA SIESTA. 

By scenes like this the Land of Flowers 
Entwines her tendrils round the heart, 

And makes one glad to know the hours 
So lightly and unfelt depart. 

O, hours too rare to grace a song! 

Go, speed ye on like thistle-down! 
Ye must to brighter beings belong. 

We know naught yet of whose renown! 

That butterfly, whose brilliant wings 
Go flitting there like sunny beams; 

This humming-bird, which never sings; 
Are messengers with fairy dreams! 

The mocking-bird's unpracticed notes. 
Diffusing joy, and peace and love. 

Seems each to blossom as it floats, 

Like painted snow-flakes from above! 

The honey-shod, light-footed bees 

Trip sweetly o'er the petals of the rose. 

Which yield pink music to the breeze 
That ever balmy, gently blows! 



2^ A FLORIDA SIESTA. 

This sensitive acacia tells 

Of rainbow showers tomorrow morn ; 

The jasmine rings its golden bells, 

While rippling smiles run o'er the corn. 

That winding brook in each mossy nook, 
Is singing songs to the lilies there; 

Those anemone leaves, my muse believes, 
Were blown from an angel's book of prayer. 

Xhe laughing, irridescent phlox. 
In radiant chalice, lined with blue, 

To nodding, thirsty four-o' clocks. 
Brings a draught of sparkling dew. 

Those gorgeous poppies on the brink 

Distil nepenthe all night long. 
That dainty mignonettes may drink 

Forgetf ulness of every wrong. 

Yon cereus beside the tomb, 

Mayhap hath pierced some buried hope, 

Which lives again in that bright bloom, 
So sadly seldom seen to ope! 

Those laden trees of lusciouG fruit 

Invite the weary soul to rest; 
The tuscawilla tunes his lute. 

While crimson turns the glowing west. 

Now, as the light is faintly fading 
From the glorious skies away, 

Sun-beaiais rich with rarest shading, 
Limn the epitaph of day. 

This must have been the final touch, 
From tinted, odorous founts beguiled, 

And, though He had created much, 

God looked upon this work and smiled ! 

So the conscious earth smiled back in mirth. 
And the flowery dimples still remain; 

Then the wide, deep sea, with joyous glee. 
Did learn to sue with a soft refrain! 



EXTRA VA GA NZA S. 2j 

EXTRAVAQANZAS. 

TO . 

I. 
O, for a language of love, 

Known only to you and to me, 
Whispered down from the angels above, 

As soft as the murmuring sea ! 
And O, for an isle far away, 

Far away in the deep, rolling blue. 
Where the flowers forever are gay, 

Blooming only, yes, only for you ! 
Where the spring and the flowers are young 

Forever and ever that we, 
Beneath trellised arbors o'erhung, 

In the spring-tide of love may be, 
And never less cheerful than they ! 

2. 

The orange would blossom more sweetly, 

And the stars would smile down from their height ; 
The hours fly along the more fleetly, 

On the wings of our love's glad delight. 
And infuse rosy dreams in our slumbers, 

An earnest of love that would come 
The next day in such musical numbers 

The birds of the air would be dumb ! 
Antares and Algol and Venus, 

So ruddy and fitful and bright. 
Would beam O, how gently between us 

And the dark, mantling shadows of night. 
Which Fancy with figments encumbers ! 

3- 
With emeralds, opals and pearls, 

The sands of the shore would be strewn ; 
On the crest of each billow that curls. 

Some nymph would establish a throne ! 
The storm? would forever in vain blow 

On this island of ours in the sea ; 
Every cloud would dissolve in a rainbow 

When looked on by you and by me ! 
Will you hence, my dear life and my soul. 



26 EXTRA VA GANZAS. 

To this island of ours there alone, 
Where the summer-sea melodies roll, 

That its glories may all be your own ? 
Then away let us over the main go ! 



AMARCANA. 

When rhrcbus blinked last even-tide, 
Ayont the bickering burn I hied. 

That wimplin' aft its course pursues, 
An' maks douce music roun the cot 
Where ane abides the warl kens not, 

Nor taints wi' dowff and thowless roose. 

She is the mistress o' my soul, 
O' ilka thot an' dream the goal ! 

I canna, darena, tell her name ! 
She met me far adoon the glen. 
Then led the wa' an' bade cum ben, — 

Th' war nae ither folk at hame ! 

Her glad, blue een an' snawy cheek, 
Half hid frae view, as gin to pique, 

Like violets mid gowans grown. 
Or liquid diamants on the lawn 
At earliest blush o' rosy dawn, 

War na designed to g/int alone ! 

Her lips were shaped like Cupid's bows, 
An' o' sic color as the rose ! 

They'd gar a goddess hide her ain ! 
The melting cadence o' her voice 
Wad mak sad Philomel rejoice. 

An' learn to pipe a gladder stain ! 

Upon her shauthers, braw an' white. 
Like linns o' rarest, gowden light, 

Her flaffan ringlets touzling fell ; 
Wi' love she tipped her blate, wee dart. 
An' airted it wi' canny art, 

Gien rapture mair than I cnn tell ! 



EXTRA VA GA NZA S. 27 

She tuned me sangs wi' merry quips, 
That cam like hinny frae her Ups, 

Then archly cast a sklent at me, 
An' claspt her hanso'er twa pink loves 
Close kuittlin' there like plighted doves. 

That wad a god entrance to see ! 

I mauna tell our transports a', 

'Tw ad fash the heart I've strown awa', 

An' wha should wyte the lass for this ? 
On lo'e we feasted aft an' lang, 
Still she was loth to let me gang, 

An' lent me mony a fareweel kiss ! 

She couldna speak for dowie dool ; 
I feart the bonny bairn wad snool, 

Sae eldritch was her woefu' grief ! 
I promised her I wad return, 
When Hesper oped his dewy urn, 

An' gied her eerie mood relief ! 



ETHEL VANE. 

PART I. 1880. 
I. 

By Carib's tide is laved the gem of isles, 
Forever wreathed in summer's floral smiles. 

2. 

On that island in the sea, 

Lives a maiden loved by me ; 
Nor all the powers beneath or heaven above, 
Can circumscribe or bligHt my boundless love 

'Twould her distress if it were less, 
Me drive to sacerdotal stole ! 

My every heart-beat trills a note 

Whose echoes shall entrancing float 
Perennial through my raptured soul. 

To love of her alone devote ! 
3- 

Others' charms can never fill me, 

Others' glances never thrill me, 



28 EXTRA VA GA NZA S. 

Nor could others chill me should they say, 
As Ethel said, "I crave a year's delay !" 

O, why does she deny to me 
The boon so priceless that I ask ? 

Like a blessing held in heaven, — 

Worthless until freely given, 
But kept aright if giving task, 

Or bring to cheek a tint of even ! 

PART II. 1885. 



This sacred isle is hallowed by a shrine. 
Embalmed in dewy, purple columbine ! 
2. 

Years have come and years have gone ; 

Years may come and years roll on, 
And I be far beyond the rolling main, 
I never shall forget thee, Ethel Vane ! 

The sounding sea remembers thee. 
And that sad time we parted here. 

When thou didst write within a shell, 

A word thy tongue could never tell ! 
It whispers still into mine ear, 

Murmuring ever thy farewell ! 

3- 

"Wait another year, 1 pray !" 

Hauntingly it seems to say, 
When I will hear the melancholy strain 
Bequeathed to it by thee, sweet Ethel Vane ! 

My very hell is in that knell, 
And doth its terror shriek amain ! 

Welcome still, O, sad sea-shell. 

If the magic of thy spell 
Were taught thee by my Ethel Vane, 

But cease, forever cease, that wail, -"Farewell! 

PART III. 1890. 



I sought a realm where never man did reign, 
Put am come back to weep, loved Ethel Vane 



EXTRA VA GANZA S. sg 

2. 

Lone, O, stars, am I to-night, 

Watching through eternal height, 
That if I may behold an angle there, 
Like Ethel Vane, with beauty not more rare ! 

The surf rebounds, with solemn sounds. 
Back from the drear and lonely strand, 

Where once I stood with Ethel Vane, 

And gazed upon the watery plain. 

Heart to heart, as hand in hand. 
With never a pang of pleasure's pain. 

3- 

One sweet thought for me remains ; 

Life hath in her glass few grains. 
And ere yon rounding moon is in the wane, 
I hope to be in heaven with Ethel Vane ! 

This thought steals o'er my soul like lore 
Nor spoke by tongue, nor writ by pen ; 

Like music from an unseen fane. 

It whispers : "Come to Ethel Vane !" 
In dreams it echoes : "O, amen !" 

My heart repeats the glad refrain ! 



MUSIC. 

In the realm where Music reigns, 
Golden Days Are Ever Beaming, 
Fraught By Eden's Airy Dreaming ! 

Where Eros chants entrancing strains, 
O, let me thence of love to sing, 
That shall my loved one thither bring ! 

Softly sweet in gentle measure 

I shall sing to praise our pleasure ! 

There rosy life may dare pale death, 
Where never tolls 

The knell to mourn a fleeting breath. 
While 'Music rolls 
Adown Green valleys ever. 

Fair As Cynthia's Early Glowing, 

Ever Gliding, Bounding, Peeply Flowing, 



JO TURN ABOUT. 

Delighting always, tiring never ! 
Changing now its varying stream 
Belike a fair maiden's sweet, love-litten-dream! 
Gracious Blessing, Drawn From Aid en ! 
Angelic, Come ! Enrapture, Gladden 
Fallen man until it seem 
Earth to him be heaven divine, 

And all shall worship at thy shrine ! 
Phcebus, touch my tongue with fire ! 
And skill my hand to sweep the lyre ! 
Bid Hesper light my love to me, 

As once of yore. 
And we shall hymn a praise to thee, 
Forevermore I 



TURN ABOUT. 

I was a youth ; my friend was forty nine ; 

Said I : "What art thou doing with those cards ? 
What are they, with jolly folk that look so fine ?" 

"O, just killing time !" "Well, wliat say you, pards ?" 
"Eh' h' h, give me two!" "Me three !" "I'll take but one! 
And so the game of killing time went on. 

Long since I've grown to manhood's full estate; 

My friend of forty-nine is seventy-three, 
And when he walks it is with tottering gait; 

He said to-day : "Well, lime is killing me ; 
I have at most but few and fleeting years !" 
And I could see his eyes were wet with tears. 



ANALYSIS OF POE'S RAVEN. 

Some years ago I was sojourning for the winter at St. Augustine, 
Florida, and one morning just as twilight was fading into day, I 
was walking upon the outer walls of old Fort San Marco, that 
stands like a sentinel on duty, a San Pedro at the gate, opening into 
a haven of rest. Feeling that I was alone, for the lashing of the 
waves upon the sea-wall prevented my hearing the approaching 
footsteps of another early riser, T fervently recited: — "Roll on, thou 



ANAL YSIS OF FOE' S FA VEN. 31 

dark and deep blue ocean, roll!" when I felt a hand lightly tapping 
me on the shoulder, and, looking round, I met the quizzical gaze of 
a neighbor, an Englishman, with whom I was often engaged in rail- 
ery respecting the relative merits of American and British poets. 
My friend laughed in a spirit of triumph, as I continued reciting: 
"And neither the angels in heaven above. 
Nor the demons down under the sea;" etc. 

He said: "When you Americans want an apt quotation, I notice 
you generally go to the British poets after all!" Where are your 
Byrons, your Shelleys, your Tennysons, that you are not quoting 
from some of them?" 

I told my friend that we have an American poet the equal in merit 
of any he had mentioned, and that poet was the sweet, silver-toned, 
^olean Poe. " He a poet!" exclaimed the critic, "a poet to a T! 
P-O-E, that near being a poet! A writer of rhymes, ringles and 
jingles, M'ho always threw the shadows in the wrong direction in his 
'Foe try' as he did in his life!" I asked him what he meant by this, 
and he said that "Poe was certainly standing in his own light, with 
his shadow falling before him; he was always going away from the 
light into darkness. In "The Raven," his chef d' mievre, he perches 
the bird above the door, and the lamplight, from below, o'er him 
streaming, threw the shadow upon the floor! Should not the shad- 
ow be thrown upward instead of downward?" I suggested that 
probably the light was without, and streaming through the glass in 
the transom, it would throw the shadow of the raven upon the floor, 
especially if the light were from a lamp suspended above the top of the 
door. My friend would not accept this solution, but he kindly 
agreed to await the results of any further effort I may make to extri- 
cate the poet from his dilemma. After a few days I satisfied him 
with the following analysis: 

It is true, especially of the last years of his life, that Poe stood in 
his own light, that his pathway was darkened, and even while he 
was a student at Charlottesville, he was somewhat erratic, but not 
eiven up to excessive libations, as some malignant detractors have 
said. "Tne Raven" is an allegory. The "raven" has always been 
regarded as an emblem of appetite, as the word "ravenous," de- 
rived from "raven" would indicate. When the raven first came 
tapping at the poet's chamber door, it came faintly and feebly, so 
that he scarce was sure he heard it, just like the appetite for any 
vice; when it comes at first, it is faint and feeble, but at each suc- 
ceeding time it comes more forcibly than before. The poet at first 



j2 ANALYSIS OF FOE'S RAVEN. 

paid but little heed to the tapping without, when, presently, again 
there came a tapping, somewhat louder than before. The raven 
was growing stronger; an appetite for the bacchanalian draught was 
increasing; the poet's power of resistance was growing weaker. He 
arose, opened his door and peered out into the darkness, out into the 
future, that was unilluminated by one scintillating ray of hope, made 
still darker by the shades of despair. The darkness gave no token; 
it had no voice of admonition; there was but the whispered word, 
"Lenore!" He turned back into his chamber of picturesque hor- 
rors which he was wont to create, and commenced linking fancy 
unto fancy and dreaming weird dreams no mortal had ever dared to 
dream defore, when, suddenly, there came a tapping, still louder 
than before. He arose and threw open his window shutters, when, 
with many a flirt and flutter, in there stepped a stately raven, ghastly 
grim and gaunt, from the saintly days of yore. This bird of ill-omen 
came in with the mien of a lord or a lady, as if thoroughly familiar 
with all the higher walks of life. This raven, this appetite for 
strong drink, was not a modern evolution. It was in the bleak De- 
cember of the poet's life, when each separate, dying ember of a 
once lustrous genius was casting fantastic ghosts upon the floor, 
that the raven was admitted to his chamber, and he was nodding 
and napping over many a volume of forgotten lore, the volumes of 
moral training, perchance, which had been instilled into his precoci- 
ous mind. The raven perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above his 
chamber door; and who was Pallas? — The goddess of reason, of in- 
tellect, of genius; the patron goddess of literature. Figuratively, 
the "raven," the appetite for drink, perched upon the poet's pale 
and massive brow, that dome of thought, that home of intellect, 
that haunt of genius, just above his chamber door, — the heaven-lit 
eye that opened into the palace of the soul! 

After indulging the raven for a time it beguiled all his sad fan- 
cies into smiling and he sat upon a cushioned seat, with his head at 
ease reclining upon the velvet lining which she should press, ah! 
nevermore! "She" was the lost Lenore, the departed intellectual 
greatness whose throne upon the bust of Pallas had been usurped by 
that raven sent by some fiendish tempter from the dark, Plutonian 
shores of hell to the enchanted desert-land made holy by the favors 
of the sacred Nine. But, in his dismal loneliness, he welcomed the 
niven as a friend and feared that on the morrow it would leave him, 
as had done his other friends before, but the raven answered: 
"Nevermore!" 



POSTSCRIPT. jj 

Vainly he had sought to borrow from his books surcease of sor- 
row, sorrow for the lost Lenore, when he said unto himself: "Quaff 
this kind nepenthe, and forget the lost Lenore! The gods hath sent 
thee respite, respite and nepenthe from the harrassing memories of 
thy lost Lenore!" But the raven answered: "Nevermore!" 

Quoth he: "Is there, then, no balm in Gilead, no lotus valley in 
some distant land, where I may forget that loved, lost goddess, my 
Lenore!" And the raven answered: "Nevermore!" 

"Then, if upon earth I may not find peace in deep forgetfulness, 
tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aiden, I shall 
clasp that sainted maiden!" He wished to know if in heaven he 
should regain that lost Lenore, that great poetical genius which 
once was his, and the sinister, grim and cruel-hearted raven answered: 
"Nevermore!" 

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" he shrieked, 
upstarting, "Get thee back to the shores of hell, whence thou art 
come! Leave my loneliness unbroken, take thy form from off my 
door, and take thy beak from out my heart!" but the raven answered: 
"Nevermore!" Like aCaesar, it had come, had seen, and, at last, had 
conquered, the greatest poetical genius that has graced the firma- 
ment of American literature, and while it sat calmly upon the pallid 
bust of Pallas, — that pale and noble brow, just above his chamber 
door, the wondrous eye that opened into the chamber of his soul, 
the lamp-light of conscience, that for a time had almost been 
quenched, coming from a source above the throne of wisdom and of 
genius, threw the shadow of the unhallowed raven upon the floor in 
the Temple of Minerva, and the soul of the new world's greatest, sad- 
dest and sweetest singer that lay floating in that dark shadow upon the 
floor was lifted, ah, nevermore! 



POSTSCRIPT. 

When kindred spirits come anear they speak ; 
A short acquaintance oft makes longer friends. 
Because there may be somewhat left to seek. 
What if reward comes not when labor ends ? 
Thrice welcome is the fruit that ripens late. 
To those who in contentment learn to wait. 



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